At that time Rougon was a stout, pale man of seventy, and had acquired all a millionaire's gravity of expression. He was generally considered by the Plassans people to have a fine head, the white, uncommunicative head of a man of political importance. After he had exchanged a few courtesies with the priest he resumed his seat at the card-table. Félicité had just gone back into the drawing-room, her face still wreathed with smiles.
When Abbé Faujas at last found himself alone he did not manifest the slightest sign of embarrassment. He remained for a moment watching the whist-players, or appearing to do so, for he was, in reality, examining the curtains, and carpet, and furniture. It was a small wainscotted room, and book-cases of dark pear-tree wood, ornamented with brass beadings, occupied three of its sides. It looked like a magistrate's private sanctum. At last the priest, who was apparently desirous of making a complete inspection, returned to the drawing-room and crossed it. It was hung with green, and was in keeping with the smaller salon, but there was more gilding about it, so that it suggested the soberness of a minister's private room combined with the brightness of a great restaurant. On the other side of it was a sort of boudoir where Félicité received her friends during the day. This was hung in straw colour, and was so full of easy-chairs and ottomans and couches, covered with brocade with a pattern of violet scroll-work, that there was scarcely room to move about in it.
Abbé Faujas took a seat near the fireplace and pretended to be warming his feet. He had placed himself in such a position that through the open doorway he could command a view of the greater part of the large drawing-room. He reflected upon Madame Rougon's gracious reception, and half closed his eyes, as though he were thinking out some problem which it was rather difficult to solve. A moment or two afterwards, while he was still absorbed in his reverie, he heard someone speaking behind him. His large-backed easy-chair concealed him from sight, and he kept his eyes still more tightly closed than before, as he remained there listening, looking for all the world as though the warmth of the fire had sent him to sleep.
'I went to their house just once at that time,' an unctuous voice was saying. 'They were then living opposite this place, on the other side of the Rue de la Banne. You were at Paris then; but all Plassans at that period knew of the Rougons' yellow drawing-room. A wretched room it was, hung with lemon-coloured paper at fifteen sous the piece, and containing some rickety furniture covered with cheap velvet. But look at black Félicité now, dressed in plum-coloured satin and seated on yonder couch! Do you see how she gives her hand to little Delangre? Upon my word, she is giving it to him to kiss!'
Then a younger voice said with something of a sneer: 'They must have managed to lay their hands on a pretty big share of plunder to be able to have such a beautiful drawing-room; it is the handsomest, you know, in the whole town.'
'The lady,' the other voice resumed, 'has always had a passion for receptions. When she was hard up she drank water herself so that she might be able to provide lemonade for her guests. Oh! I know all about the Rougons. I have watched their whole career. They are very clever people, and the Coup d'État has enabled them to satisfy the dreams of luxury and pleasure which had been tormenting them for forty years. Now you see what a magnificent style they keep up, how lavishly they live! This house which they now occupy formerly belonged to a Monsieur Peirotte, one of the receivers of taxes, who was killed in the affair at Sainte-Roure in the insurrection of '51. Upon my word, they've had the most extraordinary luck: a stray bullet removed the man who was standing in their way, and they stepped into his place and house. If it had been a choice between the receivership and the house, Félicité would certainly have chosen the house. She had been hankering after it for half a score years nearly, making herself quite ill by her covetous glances at the magnificent curtains that hung at the windows. It was her Tuileries, as the Plassans people used to say, after the 2nd of December.'
'But where did they get the money to buy this house?'
'Ah! no one knows that, my dear fellow. Their son Eugène, who has had such amazing political success in Paris, and has become a deputy, a minister and a confidential adviser at the Tuileries, had no difficulty in obtaining the receivership and the cross of the Legion of Honour for his father, who had played his cards very cleverly here. As for the house, they probably paid for it by borrowing the money from some banker. Anyhow, they are wealthy people to-day, and are fast making up for lost time. I fancy their son keeps up a constant correspondence with them, for they have not made a single false step as yet.'
The person who was speaking paused for a moment, then resumed with a low laugh:
'Ah! I really can't help laughing when I see that precious grasshopper of a Félicité putting on all her fine duchess's airs! I always think of the old yellow drawing-room with its threadbare carpet and shabby furniture and little fly-specked chandelier. And now, to-day, she receives the Rastoil young ladies. Just look how she is manœuvring the train of her dress! Some day, my dear fellow, that old woman will burst of sheer triumph in the middle of her green drawing-room!'